


In the Midst of the Darkness

by thatpeculiarone



Series: Profound Drabbles [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angel True Forms (Supernatural), Canon-Typical Violence, Demons, M/M, Near Death Experiences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:22:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22159306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatpeculiarone/pseuds/thatpeculiarone
Summary: On a hunt for a demon, things go wrong.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Profound Drabbles [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1321238
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	In the Midst of the Darkness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueeyesandpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueeyesandpie/gifts).



> Hey all!
> 
> This is dedicated to the wonderful blueeyesandpie as I was inspired by [**this wonderful piece of art of her's!**](https://blueeyesandpie.tumblr.com/post/188037826955/its-getting-dark-too-dark-to-see) Like damn, it gave me chills and I knew I had to write something for it. We are currently doing a birthday celebration on our mutual server, [ProfoundBond,](https://profoundnet.tumblr.com/) and one of the challenge items was to write something for someone's art! See my previous one [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22132360)
> 
> I hope you enjoy Sunny!

Dean knew he was a good hunter; hell, he was even a  _ great  _ one.   
  


He was raised in the life and as his father always said; he was practically  _ born _ to do it. As a kid, instead of bedtime stories, he was told stories of lore. And instead of baseball games, he was taught to shoot on Saturday afternoons. Instead of a quiet little suburban home with a picket fence; he had himself, his dad, his little brother and the open road. It was all he knew and all he wanted to know. There were a realm of uncertainties and possible futures that he may or may not ever get to live. Dean didn’t like to think about those. Instead, he focused on what he did know and that was hunting.   
  
  
However, sometimes Dean’s confidence made him susceptible to error.   
  


There were many times when he would make a mistake in a hunt, too eager to impress his father or too optimistic about his abilities. Such as the time that he almost got Sam killed by a shtriga because he left him in the house unattended, or the time his dad got injured during a werewolf attack because Dean had underestimated the strength of the monster.   
  


_ “Never underestimate your opponent, Dean!”  _ John had yelled at him that night as they drove back to Sam.  _ “That’s what gets you killed.”  
  
_

If only he had listened.   
  


It had been many years since that fateful night and Dean was now twenty-four-years-old and hunting alone. With his brother off at college and his dad hunting a wendigo somewhere along the North Pacific, Dean spent many days relying on his own instinct and skills. It hadn’t failed him yet, which is why he felt he would be able to take on a low-level demon.   
  


A few recent deaths in the Omaha area caught his attention and he found himself making an all-night trek from Tahoma. Through investigating, he realised the women had been used as sacrifices in some demonic ritual and it didn’t take long for him to figure out who the poor possessed bastard was. He felt sorry for James Stewart, an unemployed alcoholic who spent most of his time on the rotting counter of  _ Todd’s Tavern.  _ Dean had no idea if James was going to come out of this alive.   
  


In the end, it was how he had landed himself in an abandoned warehouse, luring the demon there with false promises. Despite being a low-level demon, he didn’t fall for Dean’s traps and had punched him square in the jaw when Dean had attempted the exorcism. Not being able to remember the latin words off by heart, Dean figured he had to knock the guy unconscious in order to trap him. So he did what he knew best, he  _ fought.   
  
_

Turned out that low-level demon? Not the greatest fighter. Apart from the first one, Dean was able to dodge his swings with ease while landing a few hits of his own. By the time he’d hit the guy for the fourth time, Dean was beginning to feel smug. This was going to be a  _ breeze.   
  
_

He hit the guy a fifth time and he went down, passing out cold. Dean gave him a quick once over, before turning his back on him to go and find his journal and holy water. He was ready to send that black-eyed dick back to where he belonged.   
  


Unfortunately, it proved to be a fatal mistake.   
  


With his back turned, he never got to see the way the demon slowly lifted his head up and crawled across the floor. Nor was he able to see him pick up an abandoned pipe laying on the ground.   
  


Which was why when Dean turned back around, he was disarmed and unprepared for the demon’s strike.   
  


Dean didn’t feel pain at first, in fact, if it wasn’t for the shock, he probably wouldn’t have noticed at all. From watching movies, he always imagined getting stabbed as something painful and harsh. Like a throbbing sting, or a deep pull in his gut. Instead, it was just  _ cold  _ \-- as if someone had placed a large clump of ice right in his abdomen. If he couldn’t see the shiny pipe sticking out of his gut, he would have no idea he’d even  _ been  _ stabbed.   
  


The demon yanked the pipe out as quickly as he’d shoved it in. The action caused every muscle in Dean’s body to seize, winding him. He fell to his knees, the world around him faint and lifeless. A numb feeling began to spread throughout his body, tingling up his spine and brimming at the nerves in his head. All he could hear was a buzz, and the occasional words of the demon as it continued attacking him.   
  


_ “... low-life scumbag…”  
  
_

_ “... good for nothing hunter…”  
  
_

_ “... let’s see how hell looks on you?...”  
  
_

He could feel the pressure of the demon’s hits and could  _ almost  _ feel the blood dripping down his face. Yet it was far away, as if it were a distant dream. A part of him wondered if it was the shock, the adrenaline that ran through every inch of his vessels. Yet a more logical part of Dean thought about the pipe and how far the demon had lodged it. He thought about the possibility of the pipe severing his spinal cord and the massive amounts of internal bleeding and organ damage a rusty old pipe could cause. He thought about the feeling of dying.   
  


_ This must be it _ .  _ This must be what dying feels like.   
  
_

Yet, before Dean could dwell on it more, his thought process was interrupted by a piercing scream.   
  


At first, he considered that it may just be his own screaming. But he heaved a deep breath and realised that no, it definitely was  _ not  _ him. He took a moment to focus his eyes, to work through the trauma-adrenaline-dying fog that had been placed over his head like a veil. He noticed that the demon was no longer in front of him -- no longer turning his face into indiscernible mess of blood, skin and bone. When he narrowed his eyes further, he located the monster a good three feet away, collapsed on his back. He was still; frozen and unmoving. Pain began to flood Dean’s senses again and he knew he needed to do  _ something,  _ anything if he had even a chance of survival. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the pipe on the ground next to him. He gritted his teeth and reached out for it, clamping onto it with his bloody hand. He then took a breath and then another; steadying himself,  _ preparing  _ himself.   
  


Then, in one semi-swift movement, he got to his feet.   
  


A cry pierced the room and Dean  _ knew  _ at that point that it came from his own lips. He sucked in a harsh breath, leaning on the pipe for support. In slow, hobbled steps he made his way over to the demon, wanting to see for himself if the hell-spawn had been exorcised. He wondered if the demon had gotten bored or if  _ somehow,  _ drunk old James Stewart had been able to take control. He looked over at his hunting bag, wondering if he tried to force himself to walk more, just so that he could get his holy water, to double check if the demon was still there or not.   
  


But before he could, he  _ saw _ it.   
  


The man was dead, there was absolutely no doubt about it. Lifeless, still and bearing no eyes. Instead of eyes, the man had black sockets where they used to be -- hollow, _deep._ They looked burnt, almost as if instead of eyes there was rotting charcoal instead. Bile raised to Dean’s throat but he swallowed it down, turning away from the sight before him. If he was going to die, he definitely didn’t need his body to be discovered with the remnants of his lunch all over his clothes. He felt the blood would be mortifying enough.   
  


Suddenly, a flash of light pulled Dean’s focus and he found himself staring at the other side of the room, where the warehouse extended into the different compartments. There, at the top of two cements steps, was a sight that he had never seen before. A sight that made Dean both want to look away but at the same time, _seem_. The light was so bright, a soft yet frightening mix of white and blue. It sizzled and crackled as if a multitude of lightning had just manifested in that very room. He could make out two dark shadows through the brightness and before he knew it, he was transfixed and had began to weakly walk towards it.   
  


The brightness never dulled, the light still so warm and inviting. As Dean got closer, the more he felt drawn to it, as if were a magnet pulling him. Soon, the black shadows began to become clearer, creating a shape that Dean could only just make out.  _ Wings.   
  
_

He struggled up the first step, before collapsing on the second, the pain now too unbearable for him to physically cope with. He felt hot and he was sure, _positive,_ that every cell of his had been lit on fire. The dull buzzing from before, began to intensify to a pounding, a _thumping._ It was almost as if it his heart was just  _ pleading  _ for him to stop. He looked up at the light, swallowed, and wondered if this was what everyone meant when they described the “light at the end of the tunnel”. Was this Heaven’s doors? Did Heaven  _ actually  _ exist?   
  


His vision began to darken, somehow the fierce light not being enough to keep his eyes open.  
  


_ It’s too dark, too dark to see.   
  
_

His head was spinning.  
  


As his eyelids drooped, he stared at the light with a comfort in his chest. And he swore on his mother’s grave that he made out a face, a pair of blue eyes watching him through the haze.   
  


He blinked once. Twice. Three times.  
  


Then, the world faded to black. 

  
  
★ ★ ★  
  
  
  


When Dean awoke again, he was in his motel bedroom, the same one he had been in the night before. He was breathing heavily and his own heartbeat played like a soundtrack in his ears. He looked around the room and everything was as it had always been -- his phone, wallet and keys on the dresser, his duffle on the armchair by the window. With frantic movements, Dean felt under his pillow and found that his gun was there, safe and sound.   
  


_ Had it all been a dream?   
  
_

Dean gulped and looked down, to see he was in one of his plain black tees and track pants. Cautiously, he gripped the hem of his shirt and pulled it up, prepared to see scarring or a bloody abscess in his abdomen. Instead, his skin was clear, smooth, with not a scar or imperfection in sight. Dean brought his hands to his face, feeling his cheeks and eyes and mouth. No bruising, or split lips. Not even a cut or scrape.   
  


_ It must have been a dream. It had to be a dream. Yet, it felt all too real.   
  
_

Dean swung his legs over the side of the bed and got up, his body feeling steady and strong. He took a couple of steps, then another, all with no sign of weakness. Definitely not what he had felt in his dream. As he made his way over to the bathroom, he began to feel a lot calmer.   
  


_ It was a dream. Just a horrible and traumatically realistic dream.   
  
_

Truly convinced, he turned the water on in the shower, preparing to soak himself in soap and shampoo and wash away the night terrors once and for all.   
  


That was until he took off his shirt and realised that all his scars had been willed away -- all except one.   
  


A large, red handprint seared into his upper left arm.  
  


_ No,  _ He thought as the blood drained from his face.  
  


_ It was not a dream.  _

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> If you are a DeanCas fan (well, I'm just assuming) please feel free to join us on the server! You are always welcome!  
> [ProfoundBond Discord Invite](https://discord.gg/profoundbond)  
> [ProfoundNet Tumblr](https://profoundnet.tumblr.com/)
> 
> MY SOCIALS - come say hi!  
> Tumblr: imthatpeculiarone  
> Twitter: thatpeculiarone


End file.
